


I ain't afraid of no ghost

by staringatstars



Series: Ghost Stories [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ghost Genji, Ghost Hanzo, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 18:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12238587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staringatstars/pseuds/staringatstars
Summary: Though there's little Genji wants to do more after his death than haunt his brother, he soon finds his afterlife to be just as resistant to attempts to control it as his life was.





	I ain't afraid of no ghost

In the end, Genji Shimada died as he lived – wishing he’d been born an only child. 

There was no peace, no acceptance. Everything he’d ever learned, everything he’d ever known, was swept by crushing waves of agony, until he couldn’t recall his own name, and then a terrible white numbness rushed through what remained of his limbs, filling his lungs and freezing his heart. 

His clan had always glorified death as the epitome of honor, as though it were a goal to be obtained, yet as his very life fled his body in the form of a growing scarlet river, a terror like he’d never known cut through the anguish, stealing his years away, leaving behind, not the warrior or the spendthrift, but the small boy afraid of the dark. With a monumental effort, he shifted his gaze, searching for his brother, who hadn’t moved an inch since he’d struck him down. Though his version was blurred, he could easily imagine the contempt and disdain carved into Hanzo’s sharp features as he stared down at him.

Genji longed to tell Hanzo how much he hated him, how much he wished it were his brother lying on the floor, broken and bleeding, in his place. He wanted to ask him why he’d done it, why he’d allowed the clan to twist him so thoroughly that he was even capable of striking him down. 

He wanted Hanzo to tell him that everything was okay and the monsters weren’t real. 

Then his vision narrowed to a pathetic pinpoint, before vanishing entirely, and he was dragged down into the endless night, never to rise again.

 

At least, that was what he _thought._

He regained his senses to he find himself in a monastery high on a snow-tipped mountain. It was built like a fortress, with sturdy stonewalls and domed roofs topped with golden flags that fluttered in a perpetual breeze. 

The air must have been freezing and thin at such a high altitude, yet instead of a chill, he could still feel the clinging humidity of Hanamura, could still taste the salt of his own blood sitting on his tongue and running down his throat. He coughed, as though to dislodge it, but nothing changed, and not the hovercraft flying overhead, not even the Shambali monks meditating silently in the courtyard where he stood, could distract him from the diagonal cut across his torso. 

Though he couldn’t feel pain, the memory of what he was beginning to realize was his own death was enough to drag him to his knees. None of the omnics reacted, none of them made a move to help him as he saw once again the blank, emotionless expression on his brother’s face as he murdered him.

Hanzo.

That dirty traitor. 

Throwing his head back towards the clear blue sky, Genji opened his mouth as far as it could go and howled, giving life and sound to the rage and grief swelling within him. There wasn’t anyone around to make him stop, and he soon realized that he didn’t have to, since he didn’t technically need to breath, but although it hadn’t taken his mind long to put the pieces together, his heart was slower to believe it. He felt his lungs empty, his already ruined throat protest with a rawness that burned, and slowly, the shrieks died down into quiet, heartbroken sobs. 

He pulled his knees closer to his chest and laid his head on them, letting the emotions run their course. He wanted someone – anyone to look at him, he wanted to be seen, and yet he also preferred this involuntary isolation. There was little that could be done to help him, and the thought of being seen like this was enough to spark an old, learned shame inside him, yet even so…

An unexpected flash of sunlight drew his attention to the walkway where a single omnic in loose-fitted pants and a sash had paused, seemingly without cause, to tilt its head inquisitively in Genji’s general direction. Though its brassy faceplate did not led itself well to human expressions, there was a sense of bemusement to the movement, as though the omnic itself did not know precisely why it had stopped.

He blinked and the omnic was moving again, heading towards the path that led down the mountain. There was a light, yet insistent tug in his chest as he watched the omnic go, an urge to follow that he lacked the desire to understand. A few of the omnics turned their heads to follow their fellow monk, bringing forcefully to Genji’s mind those from the clan who would watch with silent judgment in their eyes whenever he would leave the castle. Though initially resistant, he decided to follow the pull to a village further down the mountain, where the omnic stood alone in an empty street, seemingly wary of its surroundings. A small figure darted out from behind a barrel, followed another, and suddenly the monk was being accosted by human children, each of them no higher than the sash on its waist. 

It enveloped them in its arms with a tinny chuckle and then hovered slightly above the earth to spin them, eliciting delighted squeals from the pair. Soon more joined them, and the monk played for a short time, allowing them to get the majority of their energy out, before a silent message passed between them, and the children settled down, retrieving books and pencils and paper from their homes before gathering in a small circle around the monk while it spoke about various topics, ranging from language to history to philosophy. 

The villagers called him Zenyatta or _sanyaasi_. Everyday, he would come down from the mountain to teach the villagers, and Genji would accompany him, his own frustration growing. Sometimes, he would shout at the omnic, knowing it could never hear them, and sometimes his anger would grow to the point where the vases in the monastery would tremble and fall, an event which had shocked him when it had first occurred, but which now happened on a semi-regular basis. Every time it happened, however, Zenyatta would kneel and sweep up the pieces himself. 

Occasionally, he would even try to fix them. 

Once, late into the night, Genji had watched as he tried to repair such a vase with melted gold, in deference to a tradition from his homeland. Though the gold spilled and spread unevenly in some places, the end result was that the shattered pieces clung together, even more beautiful than before. 

When it became apparent to the monk that the vases repaired with such a method seemed to be spared by whatever unhappy force inhabited their dwelling, he began applying the practice to all of the broken pottery, thereby forcing Genji to give up what was quickly becoming a destructive habit. Though it infuriated him to know that for every day that he remained in Nepal, Hanzo was going unpunished, Genji decided that his brother likely had a long life yet to live and thus could wait a while longer for him to visit his vengeance upon him.

It would be better if some time passed, enough for his brother to grow complacent with his position of power among the Shimada, before it was all stripped away from him. 

It was while he was drifting through the monastery aimlessly, with such darkness occupying his thoughts, that he accidentally stumbled upon a private conversation between Zenyatta and a taller omnic dressed in pale and ornate robes. There was a fireplace in the room, though the monks had no need of it, and the flames threw stark shadows and light over their forms. 

Zenyatta spoke first, though from the sounds of it, they’d been at this conversation for some time, “I respect and understand your methods, brother, but it is time for me to find my own path.”

The other omnic bowed his head, accepting this. “…Is there truly nothing I can say that would convince you to stay?”

And the monk huffed a light, metallic chuckle, as he laid a palm on his back, leading him towards the warmth of the hearth, “Come now, Mondatta, was it not you who taught me that all are one in the Iris?” 

With an exasperation that Genji involuntarily recognized, Mondatta sighed, “It was, wasn’t it?” 

Though Zenyatta’s tone remained light, and the hand on Mondatta’s back sturdy, there was something undoubtedly genuine when he confessed,“Even so, I will miss you greatly, brother.” 

“Not nearly as much as I will miss you, Zenyatta.” If the omnics were capable of it, Genji was sure they would be smiling. “The other monks may be your equal in some respects, but none of them can quite compare to your wealth of cleverness and wit.” He shrugged, the gesture unmistakably human and oddly out of place with the environment. “Also, their grasp of humor leaves much to be desired.” 

Tilting his head, Zenyatta replied, “If I did not know you so well, Mondatta, I would invite you to come with me.” 

After taking a moment to place a hand on Zenyatta’s shoulder, Mondatta told him with warmth, “Write to me when you can. I wish to know how you are faring on your journey.”

Placing his own hand over his brother’s, Zenyatta quietly yet firmly said, “Of course.” 

Genji allowed his mind to drift as they talked for a while longer, only to perk up when Zenyatta turned to leave the monastery, likely for the last time in a very long time. 

When he was at the threshold, however, Mondatta called out to him, “And Zenyatta?” The monk halted without turning. Later, he would wish he had. 

“Be safe.”

 

When Zenyatta was presented with an opportunity to join Overwatch, Genji found himself to be more surprised by the organization’s illegal resurrection than by their choice in recruits. The monk had proven to be wise on their journey, kind and giving, yet never hesitating to defend those who could not defend themselves. He preached against anger and resentment, against allowing vengeance not to consume you, and though Genji was resistant to it at first, it wasn’t long before he found himself agreeing, and when he did, he felt a change within him, a lightness that wasn’t there before. 

Since it’d been many years since they’d settled down, Genji discovered that he was rather enjoying their stay at Watchpoint. He wandered where he pleased, getting to know the other members who would be Zenyatta’s teammates, and found that they were a friendly and eclectic mix of young blood and veterans. There was something about the group that was off, however. Certain subjects were aborted before they could be properly addressed, followed by a sadness that swept over the room and its occupants like a swift fog. 

Every now and then, he would even catch the start of a name. It was frustrating how determined the agents were not to speak it, and so he made a point of finding out who this mysterious archer none of them seemed to want to discuss was. 

He didn’t find his answer until one day he happened upon a perpetually locked room on the base that carried within it all the trappings of a place lightly lived in. Though the bed was made with impeccable precision, an elegantly crafted compound bow, a picture frame placed facedown on the nightstand, and his _wakizashi_ , propped on a platform and locked in its sheath made it clear that it had, indeed, once been occupied. There was a sinking feeling within him as he reached for the frame, a dread he refused to acknowledge.

When he lifted it up, it was to see his own face smiling back at him, and that of his brother’s. Instinctively, he looked around. The room must have belonged to Hanzo, yet Genji had spent weeks roaming these halls and had never once even heard his name spoken. 

Why would his own teammates refuse to talk about him? Had he done something to wrong them? Where was he?

It was strange to think about, so Genji tried not to ponder it too deeply, but the truth was that despite all their years apart and what Hanzo had done, Genji still wanted to see his brother again. 

As though Zenyatta were attuned to his thoughts, he asked the next day at breakfast who owned the tea in the cabinets, since he never saw any of the other members drinking it, and the agents gathered around at the table traded meaningful looks, as they silently struggled to decided who would speak. Genji drifted closer, desperate for any information they might provide, though the terrible feeling in his chest hadn’t diminished since he’d seen the old photograph. 76 made a sound as though preparing to speak, to the obvious relief of Hana and the cowboy, but Dr. Ziegler held out a hand to cut him off, not trusting him to be tactful. 

“The tea belonged to one of our recruits. Winston ordered it for him at his request.” She swallowed hard before continuing, “He said he joined us to find redemption for a past sin he’d committed, something that could never be forgiven. You have to understand – what he’d done, it consumed him. It was all he could think about.” While she spoke, McCree and D.Va focused on their plates, though neither of them made any move to eat. “We tried to give him a purpose, a reason for existing so that he could finally find some measure of peace, but it wasn’t good enough.” She paused, allowing that to sink in. Genji longed to cover his ears, for all the good that it would do. “He took his life not long before you arrived.” 

_What?_

More was said, but to Genji, it was only noise. He couldn’t believe that Hanzo was dead. They’d only narrowly missed each other. If Zenyatta had arrived a few weeks earlier, perhaps the monk could have even saved him. 

Genji tried to dredge up the old rage, the fury that had once fueled him, and found only grief, heavy and cutting. This was… Hanzo had run from the memory of him, and in doing so, had denied both of them closure. What use was the forgiveness Genji had worked so hard to achieve now? For what reason had he ever struggled to begin with?

The target of his vengeance was already dead and he had never felt emptier. 

Ignoring the others, he drifted through the ceiling to reach the roof, seeking solace. He and Hanzo used to do this all the time when they were kids. It always felt as though the higher they climbed, the further their troubles seemed. 

He didn’t expect to find the roof already occupied. 

“Oh, _gomen_ ,” he muttered, forgetting for a moment that no one could hear him, that no one had ever heard him in years. Then something happened that made his entire understanding of the world shift once more, because the stranger wearing the dark blue kyudo-gi stiffened at his address, and then slowly, incrementally looked over his shoulder. 

Though his long hair was unkempt and uncared for, his face bloodlessly pale, and his dark eyes so wide Genji could see circles of white around the irises, he was immediately recognizable. Honestly, Genji didn’t know whether to laugh, scream, or cry. 

Scarlet drops fell from his hands as he scrambled to his feet, forcing Genji to realize several things at once, the first being that despite dying as a man, the Hanzo staring at him in disbelief looked little older than a boy, and while the wound which had pained Genji’s spectral body for years had faded with time, the blood which coated his brother’s hands was still wet. 

After a minute of silence, Hanzo opened his mouth, “Gen-“ And a portal appeared behind him, swirling with inky blacks and purples. An armored hand reached out, latching onto Hanzo’s wrist. Genji cried out, reaching for him, but before Hanzo could do more than shout, “Reyes, wai-“ he was yanked into the vortex.

And Genji dove after him.

 

The instant he was out, Genji scrambled for cover behind a wooden crate, unwilling to relinquish the element of surprise so easily. Luckily there seemed to be a delay between his own arrival and his brother’s, because he and the masked wraith looming over him were already engaged in conversation in the middle of what appeared to be a storehouse of some sort, though Hanzo’s body language suggested that if it weren’t for the metal claw on his shoulder, there would have been a significantly increased amount of distance between them. 

“I thought you said you would join me, Shimada,” the shinigami rasped as its cloak billowed behind it, turning into smoke and ash at the hems. Despite no longer existing in the physical plane, it gave off a strong scent of gun powder and fire. 

Glowering up into the empty eyes of the reaper’s porcelain mask, Hanzo irritably fired back,“And turn myself into a monster?” Gesturing up and down the length of its unstable form, Hanzo continued, his voice softening, “Reyes, what you are, what you’ve let yourself become, only someone who died violently and with a genuine grievance could achieve what you have.”

The reaper scoffed, apparently unable to see how that might be a problem for the archer. Hanzo arced a brow, “I killed myself. What possible vengeance could I seek?”

“But you hate your family, don’t you?” Hanzo’s back went ramrod straight while Genji suppressed a growl. Though he may have cut his attachments towards the Shimada and held little affection for them now, hearing a stranger use them to bait his brother felt like an intrusion. Or maybe he was just sick and tired of people using their family to control him. “Why don’t you look at yourself, Shimada, and try telling me again that you’re not just as far gone as I am?”

One of them stood in ash and smoke, the remnants of an explosion, the other in blood. From the outside, Genji could see that the reaper wasn’t lying. _Onryo_ were born from a grudge, from a desire to wreak havoc upon the living. If Hanzo truly harbored hatred within his heart, as he had once, then there was a chance that he could become a vengeful spirit. 

But that was if no one reached out to him. 

Gauging his options, Genji came to the conclusion that maintaining the element of surprise wasn’t that important, after all, and stepped out from behind the crate. Hanzo spun to face him while the reaper merely shifted, though Genji liked to think he’d put that stiffness in its broad shoulders. He gave a tiny wave, “Hey, _anija._ ”

If the entire planet had suddenly tilted to the side and all the sound had fallen out of it, the silence that followed would not have compared to that which ensued after his greeting. 

Drawing a shuddering breath, Hanzo’s gaze tracked the remnants of the slash on his chest, “Is it truly you?” He winced as the reaper’s hold on him tightened, and Genji stepped forward, eliminating the distance between them in a single stride, his eyes never leaving the wraith. Nodding towards the grip digging into Hanzo’s kyudo-gi, Genji silently mouthed a countdown, starting from three. 

At first, Hanzo blinked in confusion, but by the time Genji got to zero, he was already a blur of motion, breaking the wraith’s hold on him with ease, then kneeling so that Genji could leap up, plant a foot on his shoulder, and then push off of it until his body arced above the reaper. He twisted, reaching behind his back for the kunai he’d died with, and flung them towards the apparition’s mask while his brother unsheathed a _wakizashi_ and plunged it into his torso. 

Cackling, the reaper stood with the blade in its gut and the knives sticking out of cracking porcelain,“Tell me, Hanzo, why do you think your clan ordered you to kill your brother?”

Although he was guarded, ready to strike again if necessary, Hanzo replied anxiously as the amount and speed of the scarlet droplets falling from his fingers increased, “He was frivolous. He-“

“Was thinking of betraying your clan,” the wraith finished for him. “Of joining Overwatch, just to get away from you.” Neither of the brothers could completely conceal the pain caused by those words. Even so, Genji moved to circle around the specter, determined to stand with Hanzo once more.

“And Talon knew that there was a chance they would accept him into their ranks. It was a risk they couldn’t afford, so they convinced their informant to make a case for his execution to your elders, in the belief that you would be a much more effective and willing ally without him holding you back.”

Realization dawned on Hanzo’s ashen features, and Genji could have sworn he could hear the reaper’s horrible grin splitting the skin beneath its mask when it added, “Though that didn’t quite work out, did it?”

Though it continued to laugh, the reaper soon lost its form, unable to maintain it after the damage they’d dealt it, and it dissipated into a harmless fog that disappeared through the floor. 

Something warm hit Genji’s cheek. He touched the spot curiously to find that his fingertips came away with crimson streaks, then looked up to see the cause. Blood was seeping from the walls, pouring down from the ceiling in macabre rivulets. Lightbulbs flickered and exploded in a shower of glass, and fires spontaneously burst into life, catching onto the crates and cardboard and sawdust as though they were made of logs soaked in gasoline.

For the first time, Hanzo had ceased to look merely exhausted or sick, as the appearance he wore now was truly something out of nightmares. Features distorted with rage, his long hair whipped wildly around him, as the crimson on his arms crept higher, reaching all the way to his elbows. 

A helmeted soldier in dark armor ran into the room, drawn there by the alarm. Hanzo merely had to point a finger to pick him up and toss him effortlessly against the wall, as though the man were little more than a straw doll. 

Braced against the psychic whirlwind as he fought to reach him, Genji shouted,”Hanzo!” He didn’t seem to hear him, too focused on doing to the second soldier what he had done to the first. Genji hoped for his sake that they were merely injured. “Hanzo, I have already mourned you once. Do not force me to do so a second time!” With a burst of will, he managed to grip his brother’s sleeve.

It seemed to have no effect initially, and Genji floundered for his next move. Then he noticed that the blood rain had slowed to a trickle, the wind to mild breeze, until both stopped entirely. He glanced down at his brother’s arms to see that the scarlet had settled back to his hands, which wasn’t perfect, but enough of an improvement that Genji had to bite down on the urge to sling an arm around his shoulders and give him a triumphant squeeze. 

Once they’d made it back to Overwatch base (through a portal, because apparently Hanzo could do that, though he'd appeared to be just as surprised by it as Genji was), they settled on the roof to watch the sunset and catch up. It was while they were talking that Genji suggested they make a habit of taking down evil spirits.

Turning to glance at Hanzo, he casually shrugged his shoulders, “I mean, what else are we going to do?”

And Hanzo huffed, in no small part because he was fairly certain he _was_ an evil spirit, but treasured the spark born in his brother’s brown eyes when he muttered dryly, “And here I thought I had an eternity of window shaking and door rattling to look forward to.”


End file.
